


Fierce Loyalty

by cheride



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Anger, Friendship, Gen, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27139654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheride/pseuds/cheride
Summary: Neal's heroically reckless, Peter's dangerously worried, and Clinton is the voice of reason.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 26
Kudos: 69





	Fierce Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still plodding along on a couple of longer fics, but a passing conversation in one of them referenced these events, so I figured I ought to go ahead and figure out what actually happened.

* * *

“Are you okay? Have you lost your mind? What were you thinking? Are you hurt?” The questions tumble from Peter Burke’s lips without allowing an opportunity to answer. His hands are moving just as quickly, running over the faintly trembling form, patting everywhere, searching for any sign of injury.

Sitting on the ground in front of the agent, Neal Caffrey tries unsuccessfully to bat the hands away. “Peter! I’m fine!”

Once Burke is convinced there are no bullet holes or broken bones in his consultant’s body, he hauls the younger man unceremoniously to his feet to lean against the brick wall. Neal admits—to himself at least—that he’s glad for the support, whether it’s the wall or his handler’s firm grip. He might not actually be hurt, but he is shaken, and he’s happy to take a couple minutes to collect himself. Unfortunately, since he’s _not_ hurt, Peter doesn’t seem inclined to give him that chance.

“What in the hell were you thinking, Caffrey?”

Neal arches an eyebrow at the suddenly angry snarl. “Umm. . . I was thinking I didn’t want Hammond to shoot me. Or anyone else.” He looks around and sees that the aforementioned Cameron Hammond is also mostly unscathed and is being placed into the back of a government vehicle, handcuffed and fuming. Neal’s expression turns smug. “And, it worked. Nobody shot, and the bad guy arrested.” All in all, he considers it a pretty good outcome, even if it didn’t go exactly to plan, and he’s not sure why Peter’s being so grouchy.

And, he’s not really interested in putting up with an interrogation, so he directs his attention to his own self-examination. “I don’t think this jacket can be salvaged,” Neal laments, running a hand over a frayed sleeve. “And, I hope someone finds my hat.”

The flippant attitude shreds the last vestiges of Burke’s restraint. “You think this is a joke?” He’s leaning in closer now, growling right in the younger man’s face.

Caffrey’s eyes widen, taking in the agent’s pursed lips, furrowed brow, hard eyes. Apparently, Peter is angrier than he’d realized, though he’s not so surprised he can’t recognize it’s anger born of fear. “No,” he answers demurely, “of course not. But, Peter, I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re fine? _Fine?_ Neal, you jumped off a roof!”

“I didn’t exactly _jump_ ,” Neal objected, “more like a fall. I miscalculated. I was only trying to knock off Hammond.” He stops a second, considers his word choice. “Knock him off the roof, I mean, not kill him.” He offers a hesitant grin, but Peter isn’t biting.

And Peter sure as hell doesn’t need any clarification on what happened; he figures he’ll see it all in horrific slow-motion clarity whenever he closes his eyes for a really long time.

When the op had first gone to hell, and Hammond pulled a gun, Caffrey had done the practical thing: given his extraction code and run. With the obvious exits blocked—it had taken a battering ram to get the team inside, which was surprising security for a furniture factory, even one owned by a black-market antiquities dealer—Neal had run _up_. He’d made it as far as the roof safely, even though they’d heard Hammond taking a few random shots. And, once on the roof, Neal had managed to somehow secret himself inside a hollow part of a large air conditioning array, pulling a grate behind him to keep his location hidden.

Burke didn’t see any of that, of course. He only knows it happened because just before he stepped onto the roof, he could hear Hammond shouting furiously as he searched for the object of his wrath. That, and as he and Jones had come out from behind the cover of one of the chimneys, Burke saw Hammond waiting for them, just at the edge of the roof, gun aimed precisely at the agent’s head. And in the split-second before Peter could do anything at all, he saw Neal emerge from his hiding spot, rushing recklessly toward Hammond, who turned in surprise toward the consultant and actually got off one shot before Caffrey barreled into him. Hammond had dropped the gun then, clutching instead at Caffrey’s arms, and the momentum had taken both men over the edge of the roof.

The few minutes that followed exist only as flashbulb snapshots for Burke: Radioing to the agents below to get paramedics and get to the east side of the building; forcing himself to the edge of the roof to look over, even though he didn’t want to see the aftermath; seeing Caffrey, _unbelievably_ , struggling in a dumpster, trying to escape Hammond’s grasping hands; rushing headlong back down the stairs and around the building.

By the time he got there, Agent Gill was grappling with their suspect as Hammond tried to climb from the dumpster, and Neal was on the ground, panting as he leaned against the building, obviously trying to get himself together.

No, Burke doesn’t need any damned clarification on _what_ happened, but he sure as hell wants to know _why_.

“Okay,” he says menacingly, placing a hand firmly on Caffrey’s chest, pinning him in place against the brick, “then why don’t you tell me why you attacked an armed suspect, causing yourself to _fall_ off a roof?”

Caffrey forces himself not to struggle, though he’s starting to get a bad feeling; this is an anger he’s not seen before. “He was going to shoot you, Peter.” He doesn’t have any illusion that’s an acceptable explanation for Burke, but it’s the truth, and he feels strongly this is not the time to prevaricate in any way.

“And,” he continues quickly, “I knew the dumpster had a bunch of foam in it; I’d seen it earlier when I was looking for my own escape. It was the perfect landing spot. I wouldn’t have tried to push Hammond over if I thought he couldn’t survive.”

“You think I’m worried about what might’ve happened to Hammond?” Peter demanded.

“Well, maybe not, but—”

“But nothing. Why didn’t you jump to your own escape when you first saw it?”

Now Caffrey’s confused; Peter’s worried anger is making the man unpredictable; had Peter wanted him to jump or not? “What do you mean?”

“If it was such a _perfect landing spot_ ,” Burke mimics dangerously, “why didn’t you just go ahead and jump?”

“As a rule,” Neal snaps, finally angry himself, “I try to save jumping off a roof as a last resort. It’s—” he breaks off, belatedly realizing he’s not doing himself any favors here.

“It’s _what?_ ” Peter prompts after a long moment of silence, tone still hard as steel.

“Dangerous,” Neal admits reluctantly.

There’s more silence then, but Burke looks slightly mollified, and the pressure on Caffrey’s chest begins to lessen, so the young man takes a chance on a lighthearted redirect. “On the other hand, it was only three stories; you know that’s not even my personal best.”

But apparently, this is Caffrey’s day to miscalculate because that was very obviously the wrong thing to say. He sees Burke’s face harden again, and his eyes go dark with fury just before Neal finds himself spun around, face pressed into the brick, and then feels his hands cuffed behind him before he can offer even a word of protest.

“This is not a goddamned _joke,_ Caffrey.” Burke is thoroughly incensed now, leaning his body against his restrained consultant, almost bellowing directly in the other man’s ear. “You could have been killed! Do you understand that?”

“Peter—”

“Shut up! You are _not_ an agent! You are not trained to deal with armed suspects, and you are _not_ supposed to put yourself into the line of fire!”

Caffrey _is_ struggling now, but with no success, so he tries again to offer an explanation. “Peter, I didn’t—”

“ _Shut up!_ You are a civilian consultant, serving at _my_ pleasure, and I will not be responsible for getting you killed. This job is not worth your goddamned life! You’re through here; consider your probation revoked. I’m having the marshals escort you back today.”

The words fall on Caffrey like a physical blow, stilling him completely and shocking him into silence. Even when Burke pushes off of him and takes a half step back, the consultant stays pressed against the wall.

Both men are rooted in place now, quiet except for their labored breathing. Caffrey can find no words for once in his life, and Burke has said everything he wants to say. Both are surprised by the sudden voice from behind them.

“Boss? Is everything all right?”

Burke turns quickly. “Jones. Yeah, everything’s fine.”

The younger agent raises a quizzical eyebrow as he looks at the bound CI, who’s wide-eyed but still passively waiting against the wall. “What—”

“Keep an eye on him, will you?” Peter interrupts. “And get the paramedics over here to check him out. I need to call the marshals.” He’s already reaching for his phone.

Caffrey closes his eyes in defeat though he still doesn’t try to speak, but Jones has no such restraint. “The marshals? Peter, what’s going on?”

Burke waves a dismissive hand as he’s moving away, turning back only long enough to say, “Don’t forget he’s off his anklet. Watch him; keep him here.”

Getting no satisfaction from his boss, Jones moves quickly to Caffrey. “What the hell, man?” he asks as he grabs an arm and pulls the other man around to face him. “What did you do?”

“Fell off a roof,” Caffrey says grimly. He leans himself back against the wall, looking thoughtfully at Jones. “Your boss is about to send me back to prison because I wouldn’t let him get shot; I don’t suppose I could convince you to look the other way for a couple minutes?”

“Forget it,” Jones tells him firmly. “In fact . . .” He pulls the tracker from his pocket and waves it around in demonstration. Caffrey rolls his eyes, but he moves his left foot forward a little for easier access.

After the tracker is locked back around Caffrey’s ankle, Jones stands back up and fixes him with a piercing stare. “Now, seriously, what the hell is going on?”

“ _Seriously,_ ” Neal answers, “Peter’s freaked out because I went after Hammond. Said he’s not going to be responsible for getting me killed, so he’s putting me back inside.” He shakes his head. “Maybe someone should remind him that prison doesn’t exactly come with a security detail and that an FBI snitch would probably need one.”

“It _was_ a pretty stupid thing to do,” the agent says, “even without falling off the roof. And you didn’t see him when you went over the edge. I’ve never seen anyone go so white so quickly without actually passing out. You really did scare him.”

Caffrey sighs noisily. “I know. But could you try to talk some sense into him? Please?”

Jones heaves his own sigh. “You’ll stay put? Because you know he’ll fire my ass if you take off.”

“I’ll be right here,” Neal promises.

“Okay. I’ll send the medics over while you’re waiting.”

Jones finds Burke pacing near the surveillance van, muttering at the phone still in his hand. Thankfully, it looks like he’s still trying to work up the courage to actually place the call. “Boss?”

“I thought I told you to watch Caffrey?”

“He’s fine,” Jones assures him calmly, though he’s a little surprised by the older man’s snappishness. “He’s on anklet again, and the paramedics are checking him out. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“What’s going on,” Burke says as he comes to a stop in front of his agent, placing his hands on his hips, “is me finally admitting this little experiment was a huge mistake. I can’t trust him to do a single damn thing I tell him to do.”

“Really? Seems to me he’s been doing pretty good work lately. It wasn’t his fault Hammond got spooked.”

“Maybe not, but whose fault was it when he jumped out of a perfectly good hiding place in front of a gun? How many times have I told him his job is to stay out of the way during a takedown? To let the trained, _armed_ agents do their jobs?”

“A few,” Jones admits. “But, Peter, you can’t seriously intend to lock him back up for this? What is that going to accomplish?”

“It’s going to keep him alive!”

Clinton isn’t used to being on the receiving end of Burke’s angry outbursts, but he soldiers on. “Caffrey understood the risks when he signed on,” he points out, “and every single time he goes undercover.”

“You think so?” Peter demands. “I don’t know how that’s even possible because it’s become increasingly clear that _even_ _I_ didn’t understand the risks. I guarantee you his life has been in more danger since he’s been with us than it was his entire criminal career, including his four years locked up with murderers, drug dealers, and gang bangers. So, you tell me how he could possibly have been prepared for that?”

Burke’s probably not wrong about that, so Jones tries a different tack. “Prison will be different for him this time. He’ll probably have to be segregated, especially if keeping him safe is your primary concern. And he’s got, what? Almost another three years? In isolation. You know him better than I do, but that seems like a long time for anyone to be alone, but especially someone like Caffrey.”

“Closer to two and a half,” Peter points out, but he still grimaces at the thought. It’s true that there aren’t many people more naturally social than Neal, but still. . . “I could arrange for exceptions to the visitation policy.” But even as he says it, Peter knows it might not be possible, and even if it were, a few hours of visitation every week would never be enough interaction for someone like Caffrey. The man would stay alive, but he might not stay sane. He drags a hand over his head and tries to stop the shudder he feels building inside, then considers his phone again.

Jones has one last point to make. “Remember just before you got Caffrey out, when you called us all to the conference room to let us know what was about to happen?”

“Of course,” Burke drawls, not sure he wants to hear whatever Clinton’s got to say now.

“You told us that we might not ever be able to trust Caffrey completely, but that the key to keeping him on our side was going to be making him feel like part of the team; that he only had a small circle of close associates but was fiercely loyal to those he cared about. _Fiercely_ _loyal._ Those are the words you used, Peter. You knew what he was like, and you used it.” Seeing the glare on Burke’s face, Jones holds up his hands placatingly. “You used it for his own good, to help him want to make better choices, but you wanted him to feel like part of the team; you wanted his loyalty. It hardly seems fair to punish him now because your plan worked too well.”

It takes a while—longer than Jones had thought it would—but Burke finally huffs out a long breath. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, almost to himself, and finally slips his phone back into his pocket. But then he lets his eyes meet the younger pair in front of him, and it’s plain that his fears haven’t yet subsided. “He really isn’t equipped to handle some of this stuff. How am I supposed to protect him?”

But Jones just shrugs. “Peter, you can only do what you already do—what you do for all of us: prepare as much as possible, make a good plan, and have his back. We don’t operate in a world of absolutes, but we do operate as a team. It’s what gets us through, even Neal. It’s the best you can do for him, but I guarantee he thinks it’s enough.”

Guilt clouds Peter’s face. “He might’ve half an hour ago, maybe not so much now. I was pretty rough on him.”

“Give him some credit. He usually understands more than you’d think.”

“Yeah, of course he does.” Burke smiles wearily as he claps his agent on the back. “Thanks, Jones. Really.”

“Anytime, Boss. I’ll finish up inside then meet you guys back here at the van.”

Peter offers one more smile of thanks then heads back to the other side of the building toward his waiting CI.

Burke is only slightly surprised to find Caffrey almost precisely where he left him, like he hadn’t dared to move an inch. It’s one of the unexpected contradictions of Neal Caffrey: for a conman who makes _open for interpretation_ into an art form, the kid is sometimes too damn literal. Though in this particular case, Burke’s willing to admit Caffrey’s fear of returning to prison is a pretty strong motivator, and he tries to force down the guilt.

Caffrey’s talking as soon as Burke reaches him. “Peter, I’m sorry. I know your rules; I’m supposed to stay out of the way, but—”

“Neal.” Peter holds up a hand to stop whatever else Caffrey intends to say, particularly anything preceded by a “but,” then simply stands silently, examining the young man for a moment. “I have to admit,” he finally begins, “I didn’t expect you to still be in the cuffs.”

“I didn’t expect to be in them at all,” Caffrey returns softly, “but I sure didn’t want to piss you off any more than I already have.”

Key in hand, Peter just makes a twirling motion with his finger to turn Caffrey around and doesn’t bother to address the comment.

But after he’s removed the handcuffs and given Neal a nudge to get him faced back around again, Peter suddenly pulls his young friend into an awkward embrace. “Thank God you’re okay,” he whispers. “You scared the hell out of me.”

And though Neal’s unyielding at first, only a beat or two passes before he relaxes and returns the hug. “Then I guess we’re even,” he whispers back, “because you damn sure scared the hell out of me.”

There’s sadness in Peter’s eyes when he releases the embrace and steps back, but they’re still filled with concern. “I went too far,” he admits, “but I meant what I said. _Most_ of what I said,” he amends quickly when he sees Neal’s eyes widen again in fear. “You aren’t supposed to put yourself in danger like that. No operation is worth your life. When the bullets start flying, _your_ job is to get out of the way and let us do _our_ jobs. I don’t think I’ve ever been unclear about that.”

“No, but—”

“You’re not an agent,” Burke breaks into Caffrey’s response, “you’re not armed, you’re not trained.” He locks his eyes on Neal’s. “But, most important, you are not expendable. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Caffrey doesn’t answer right away, but he also doesn’t let his gaze stray from Peter’s, and he doesn’t try to hide the affection he knows is shining in his eyes. Or the determination.

Then, finally, he speaks. “Peter. I’m sorry I scared you, I am. But I didn’t do what I did to save the operation; I _wouldn’t_ do what I did just to save an operation.

“But if someone’s about to shoot you, about to shoot _any_ of you, I won’t stand by and watch it happen. You can’t ask me to do that. You can bench me if you want, force me into desk duty, or you can, in fact, send me back to prison, but that’s what it’s going to take. I’m not armed or trained, and you know I’d always rather stay out of the way of any bullets or other painful objects, but I’m not helpless, and I won’t watch my friends be hurt or killed without trying to help.”

“Neal—”

“No!” For the first time, Caffrey raises his voice. “This isn’t a debate, and you don’t get to bend me to your will, not this time. You’re the boss, Peter, and I’m never going to forget that, but you don’t get to choose about this. I will always protect myself when I can, but you are not expendable, either, and I won’t pretend that you are. And if you can’t accept that, then you might as well go ahead and call the marshals.”

Burke halfway expects Caffrey to storm off then—the guy’s always been good at a dramatic exit—but all he does is take a couple of steps backward to once again lean against the building, fold his arms across his chest, and then watch his handler warily. Peter might’ve preferred the storming off to this reminder of the anxiety he’s managed to instill in his friend.

“I’m not calling the marshals,” he says, offering an immediate reassurance. “I told you I went too far earlier; you don’t have to worry about that.” Then he releases a silent breath and changes the subject. “You get a clean bill of health from the EMTs?”

Neal nods. “Mostly. They wanted to check my range of motion, but . . . Said if I have any problems just to go to the ER.”

Nodding in return, Burke tamps down the new flash of guilt as he envisions the paramedics trying to perform even a cursory exam on a handcuffed man and adds it to the list of things Caffrey should probably be pissed about but apparently isn’t. Then he closes the small distance between them and leans back against the wall next to his partner, considering loyalty.

They stand in silence for a couple of minutes before Peter nudges his elbow against the other man’s arm and says fondly, “Thanks for saving my life, Sundance.”

Neal finally relaxes enough to unfold his arms and slip his hands casually into his pockets as a small grin lights up his face. “Anytime, Butch, though, I hope you’ll understand if I ask you not to make a habit of needing it.”

“I’d worry if you didn’t,” Peter grins back at him.

Before either of them can speak again, Agent Gill rounds the corner of the building approaching them with one hand tucked behind his back. “There you are!” he calls.

“What’s up, Sam?” Burke asks.

“Oh, sorry, Peter, I was looking for Neal.”

Caffrey tosses a smug look at Peter. “What’s up, Sam?” he parrots, and Peter rolls his eyes.

“Figured you were looking for this,” Gill says, producing an only slightly battered fedora.

“You found it! Thank you, Sam.” Taking the hat almost reverently, Neal brushes off a bit of dust, rolls it around in his hands a couple times, gently reshaping it, then tips it onto his head with a flourish.

“Back where it belongs,” Sam smiles, then leaves the other two men alone again.

Neal’s still fidgeting with the hat and Peter’s watching with warm indulgence when they hear a horn beeping a few times.

“That’s probably our ride,” Burke says, jerking a thumb to get Caffrey moving.

The two fall into step easily, though Caffrey’s still distracted, working at a stubborn smudge on the underside of his hat.

“So, what was it?” Peter asks casually.

Neal cocks an eyebrow. “What was what?”

“Your personal best. Judge Hickman’s chambers?”

“Peter . . .”

“Just curious,” Burke assures him.

Caffrey casts an appraising gaze over the older man before checking his hat one more time. Then, satisfied on both fronts, he spins the fedora back onto his head with a grin. “Not the judge’s chambers. There might’ve been this one time in Seville . . .”

* * *

**~END~**

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks so much for sharing some of your fic time with me, and feel free to let me know what you thought!


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